Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 106

Charles Lamb. 1775-1834

578. Hester

WHEN maidens such as Hester die Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try With vain endeavour.

A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed And her together.

A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flush'd her spirit:

I know not by what name beside I shall it call: if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied, She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool; But she was train'd in Nature's school; Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind; A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind; Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour! gone before To that unknown and silent sh.o.r.e, Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning--

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet forewarning?

Charles Lamb. 1775-1834

579. On an Infant dying as soon as born

I SAW where in the shroud did lurk A curious frame of Nature's work; A floweret crush'd in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in her cradle-coffin lying; Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb For darker closets of the tomb!

She did but ope an eye, and put A clear beam forth, then straight up shut For the long dark: ne'er more to see Through gla.s.ses of mortality.

Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below?

Shall we say that Nature blind Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, Just when she had exactly wrought A finish'd pattern without fault?

Could she flag, or could she tire, Or lack'd she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?

Limbs so firm, they seem'd to a.s.sure Life of health, and days mature: Woman's self in miniature!

Limbs so fair, they might supply (Themselves now but cold imagery) The sculptor to make Beauty by.

Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry That babe or mother, one must die; So in mercy left the stock And cut the branch; to save the shock Of young years widow'd, and the pain When single state comes back again To the lone man who, reft of wife, Thenceforward drags a maimed life?

The economy of Heaven is dark, And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark, Why human buds, like this, should fall, More brief than fly ephemeral That has his day; while shrivell'd crones Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; And crabbed use the conscience sears In sinners of an hundred years.

Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss: Rites, which custom does impose, Silver bells, and baby clothes; Coral redder than those lips Which pale death did late eclipse; Music framed for infants' glee, Whistle never tuned for thee; Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them.

Let not one be missing; nurse, See them laid upon the hea.r.s.e Of infant slain by doom perverse.

Why should kings and n.o.bles have Pictured trophies to their grave, And we, churls, to thee deny Thy pretty toys with thee to lie-- A more harmless vanity?

Thomas Campbell. 1774-1844

580. Ye Mariners of England

YE Mariners of England That guard our native seas!

Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe; And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow!

While the battle rages loud and long And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave-- For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow!

While the battle rages loud and long And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep.

The thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the sh.o.r.e, When the stormy winds do blow!

When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger's troubled night depart And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!

Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow!

When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

Thomas Campbell. 1774-1844

581. The Battle of the Baltic

OF Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine, While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time.

But the might of England flush'd To antic.i.p.ate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly s.p.a.ce between: 'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried, when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the s.h.i.+ps, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;-- Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- Then ceased--and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail, Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then As he hail'd them o'er the wave: 'Ye are brothers! ye are men!

And we conquer but to save:-- So peace instead of death let us bring: But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our King.'...

Now joy, old England, raise!

For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup s.h.i.+nes in light!

And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

Thomas Moore. 1779-1852

582. The Young May Moon

THE young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love; How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove, When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

Then awake!--the heavens look bright, my dear, 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear; And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star More glorious far Is the eye from that cas.e.m.e.nt peeping, love.

Then awake!--till rise of sun, my dear, The Sage's gla.s.s we'll shun, my dear, Or in watching the flight Of bodies of light He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!

Thomas Moore. 1779-1852

583. The Irish Peasant to His Mistress

THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way, Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay; The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd: Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.